


Envy

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 21:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15397719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Celegorm tries to take Maglor’s man.





	Envy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aurawolfgirl2000](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Aurawolfgirl2000).



> A/N: Fill for Aurawolfgirl2000’s “Eönwë/Maglor [a kiss out of envy or jealousy]” request on [my tumblr prompt list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/176075204220/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s sitting at his mirror, humming lightly to himself and braiding pleats into his hair, when someone knocks on his door. Kanafinwë glances up and replays the sound again in his mind—each of his brothers, his mother, father, grandfather, and even the servants all have different knocks. This one is sharp, staccato, forceful but uncaring. Morifinwë, he thinks. It’s similar to Curufinwë’s but lacks in focus, similar to Nelyafinwë’s but is always louder. If it were his father or grandfather, he would rush to the door. For Nelyafinwë or his mother, he would still hurry. For the others... they can wait.

Kanafinwë ceases his song but continues with his braid. The knock comes again, angrier this time, and Kanafinwë lets out a little sigh—he knows that if he doesn’t answer before a third, Morifinwë will simply storm off and never tell Kanafinwë whatever it is he has to say.

Mildly curious, Kanafinwë pinches the unfinished end of his braid in one hand and strolls to the door. Sure enough, Morifinwë stands on the other side, fixing Kanafinwë with a bitter scowl that’s far out of proportion to Kanafinwë’s crime. With an appeasing smile, Kanafinwë smoothly asks, “How can I help you, Moryo?”

Morifinwë studies him for a moment, perhaps deciding whether or not Kanafinwë has already lost the right to this conversation. Kanafinwë smiles on—he prefers to make it difficult to fight with him rather than fighting back. Ultimately, it works. Morifinwë asks, “Is that Maia not usually here to see _you_?”

“Maia?” Kanafinwë repeats, even though he can guess who Morifinwë means.

“Yes. Eönwë.”

Kanafinwë’s quite sure Eönwë isn’t waiting in the hallway, but he peers out beyond his door anyway, checking down the corridor as he agrees, “Yes.”

“You should look out your window,” Morifinwë grunts. And then he’s turning to march down the hall, disappearing into his own chambers next to Kanafinwë’s. Kanafinwë’s left to blink in his absence and retreat back inside.

He pauses first, just wondering what Morifinwë could mean, and then he walks swiftly to the wide, ceiling-to-floor windows that line his vast bedroom. They open out into the courtyard below, where, sure enough, Eönwë stands before the fountain. He looks every bit as glorious as he always does—all his light yellows and whites nearly glowing, his cropped hair dotted with glistening jewels. His robes are simple but exquisite, and his back is turned slightly towards Kanafinwë, enough to see the way his robes dip down in the back, revealing his chiseled shoulder blades, where his wings will emerge if needed.

Usually, it’s the other way around. Usually, it’s Eönwë looking down from his balcony, and Kanafinwë playing his harp beneath it, singing softly and letting the early breeze carry his song to Eönwë’s ears. Eönwë isn’t holding a harp, and he isn’t turned to Kanafinwë.

He’s facing Turcafinwë, who lights up with sudden laughter and sets his hand down on Eönwë’s bicep. Eönwë looks curiously at the touch, and Turcafinwë takes a step closer, chin tilted up and not far from Eönwë’s. Something cold drops into Kanafinwë’s stomach.

He steps back from the window and takes in a deep, steadying breath, telling himself not to act a fool. He recognizes the stabbing feeling in his chest, even though it’s one that rarely grips him—he’s experiences a fervent, wanting _jealousy_. But that’s a childish thing, and he should really have outgrown it a hundred years ago.

There’s no longer any time to finish a proper braid. He returns to his mirror and untwists his hair with a forced calm and barely steady hands. He quickly but efficiently brushes his hair back into place, then takes a moment to examine himself in the mirror, even aware of the foolishness of vanity. His magenta robes aren’t the most flattering that he has, but there’s no time for a change. Turcafinwë never has to adjust his hair or clothes—others flock to him no matter how he looks at them, and when he really _tries_ , he can hook just about anyone.

Kanafinwë doesn’t race through the halls. He retains some measure of control, though his step is certainly quicker than usual. When he finally reaches the courtyard below, he can’t help but wonder if Morifinwë’s watching him from above and snickering. 

Turcafinwë sees him coming first, hardly acknowledging him but moving closer into Eönwë, twirling his golden locks in one finger and batting his long lashes. Kanafinwë tells himself not to react.

Yet when Kanafinwë approaches them, and Eönwë looks around, the sight of Eönwë’s handsome face puts all other thoughts out of Kanafinwë’s mind. He comes right up into Eönwë’s space, reaches out both hands to splay against Eönwë’s chest, and tilts up to brush his lips over Eönwë’s. For a fraction of a second, Eönwë is frozen—he often is when faced with truly _Elven_ things, particularly the tangible, emotional actions that must not have existed in the realm of Valar. But then Eönwë presses back into him, even looping an arm around his waist. 

Kanafinwë is immensely satisfied. He makes an effort not to show that as he settles afterward—there’s no grace in gloating. He smiles at his brother, though Turcafinwë glares daggers into him. To Eönwë, Kanafinwë greets, “Welcome.”

“Thank you, my songbird,” Eönwë answers, with a deep voice and intimate nickname that warms Kanafinwë from his very core. “I am glad that you are home. I could not stop thinking about that piece you sang for me last, and I had hoped, if it is not too much of an imposition, that you would play it for me once again.”

“Of course,” Kanafinwë coos. He would bow, if he could, but he’s still half in Eönwë’s arms and doesn’t have the room. His smile isn’t pride but genuine delight—it always amazes him that his music can speak to someone so grand. Kanafinwë would forget Turcafinwë completely, if not for the conspicuous clearing of a throat. Kanafinwë corrects, “Excuse me, Tyelko.” He does at least bow his head before stepping away, only to envelop one of Eönwë’s arms in both of his and guide his bemused Maia off towards his home.


End file.
